


Their Story Started at the Climax

by ryssabeth



Series: Domestic Vloggers [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloggers - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Vloggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:11:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met like storm systems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Story Started at the Climax

It’s Grantaire’s turn to post something—“which means,” he reminds Enjolras when the other man walks by, “no complaining from the peanut gallery.”—and so, as he really likes to communicate with the fanbase, he has to read through all the comments on Enjolras’ last video as well as his own.

“Is today’s topic of conversation going to irritate me that much?” Enjolras asks from behind him, the tips of his fingers brushing against Grantaire’s hair. “Because you _know_ how I can’t keep my thoughts to myself. Should I leave?”

(He wouldn’t leave—he’s just being an ass.)

“No, you can keep your pretty face here, you bring me views. _Eyecandy_.” Enjolras snorts as Grantaire scrolls through the comments, taking a mental note of everything that’s said, tallying up the topics in order of importance—or that’s what he would be doing, if the comments were a little more substantial. But a lot of the things posted on Enjolras’ video the day before amount very much to _you and R are so cute!_ As well as _tell us how you two found one another_.

(Comments like those are from people who are a little late to the party, because their little corner of the Worldwide Web exploded about a year before—

Well, looks like it might be time for a story.)

They had met like storm systems. There was a lot of hot air and damage—words were thrown and ideals were crushed in less-than-polite fashion. It was political, social, and emotional discourse in front of _tens of thousands_ of people, and exchange that ended up getting friends involved.

It hadn’t helped, of course, that Grantaire had been at the bottom of a bottle a good deal more than half the time.

 _Tell us how you two found one another_ is a loaded request, because there are lots of ways he could spin that—and then he has to get into the story of how, exactly, they found out they lived in the same city. And _then_ he would have to—there are just a lot of stories.

“You’ve stopped scrolling,” Enjolras tells him, his tone a cross between _have you even noticed_ and _what’s wrong_.

“Sit with me,” Grantaire scoots to the right, making room on the sofa next to him and he hears Enjolras shift at his back.

“Why? It’s not my day. It’s your turn to please the masses.”

Grantaire tilts his head back, meeting Enjolras’ incredulous stare with a  grin. “Well the masses want to know our story—and I need your help to get the story right. You know how _terrible_ I am with details.” (This is a boldfaced lie.)

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees. “You really are.” (As is this.) He circles the sofa to take a seat next to him, resting his knee against Grantaire’s, adjusting the angle of the webcam on the laptop screen. “I demand a raise for this.”

“You pay your own salary—but I can interest you in a date this evening.”

“Oh?”

This smile is less than innocent, more conspiratorial than anything else. “Yes. Depends on how well you tell a story or two. Viewers vote on the best storyteller. Loser pays for dinner and a movie.”

“Entirely unfair,” Enjolras protests, but his eyes flicker around their living room as he processes how likely it is that he’ll win. “You were an embellisher before you ever met me.”

“You’re just mad because I wasn’t telling your truths.”

“Truths are objective facts, which means yours were lies.”

“Truths are objective facts in the eyes of those with authority to say so,” he rests his forehead against Enjolras’ shoulder before sighing and pulling away. “You want to take your chances?” He tilts his head just slightly, meeting Enjolras’ eyes with a wry smile, and finding himself rewarded with a smile that burns like the surface of the sun.

(Strikingly beautiful—but he’s always been, even when he was just some asshole that couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.)

“You’re on.”

“You might want to give yourself that raise,” Grantaire hums, tapping the record option on the computer with his right hand, taking Enjolras’ hands in his left, winding their fingers together out of sight of the camera.


End file.
